


Homesick

by Anonymous



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bruce Wayne is a bad parent in this one, Child Abuse, Gen, No Beta, Pack Dynamics, Sorta includes the Ric Grayson ordeal, because wtf, cause I have no friends, except he doesn’t go by Ric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 18:03:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19256365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Omegaverse AU where Bruce hits robins, and so the pack moves on





	Homesick

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: child abuse, abuse of authority, a/b/o verse, no beta

Jason remembered the first time he saw Batman hit Nightwing. What unsettled him was that it wasn’t a fight. No one had been injected with any toxins, or brainwashed, or hypnotized. The two were just in the cave arguing, voices gradually climbing up towards the manor. “Why don’t you invite Master Richard up for a snack,” Alfred had told him, adding a poignant look. Jason obeyed and tiptoed downstairs. He was still in the shadows when he heard a loud smack.

It’d been a slap - hard enough that Dick fell onto the floor, head bowed and hand clutching his cheek. Jason had been startled enough that he froze. He feared that they would detect him, since he’d long discarded his scent blocker. Then the stench of fear and shame flooded the cave, so strong and raw that it nearly sent Jason to his knees. He knew that even the Batman couldn’t smell him beneath that. 

With the cowl still on, Bruce’s expression didn’t seem to change. There was no scent from the man. No regret, no shame, no comfort. The older man just stared at the omega on the floor, and Jason felt flashbacks careen through his head: an alpha standing over an omega, beating her relentlessly, even though the omega wasn’t fighting back. Dick wasn’t saying anything either, but his shoulders were tense, as if expecting another blow. 

“Go upstairs,” Bruce finally rumbled, turning away with a sweep of his cape. When Dick slowly gathered himself, Jason scrambled upstairs. He didn’t stop until he was at the kitchen table, back beneath the warm orange light. Alfred had retired for the night, leaving a plateful of warm cookies on the table. He’d even set out two glasses of milk. Jason seated himself and grabbed a cookie. He chewed it slowly, listening for footsteps. The cookie tasted like sawdust in his mouth. 

A few moments later, Dick emerged in the doorway. He’d changed into shorts and a loose t-shirt. An angry handprint marred the left side of his face, beginning to bruise. Jason couldn’t help but wince.

“Oh, that?” Dick said with a slight laugh. He sat across from Jason as though nothing had happened. “One of Penguin’s goons got lucky. Can you believe it?”

No, Jason thought, and wondered how many times before had Dick emerged with a bruise and brushed it off as some clumsy misstep from patrol. His mom had done it plenty of times. 

“Alfred made cookies,” Jason said obviously. Dick nodded, though he didn’t look hungry. Instead, he studied Jason’s face, as though it was his that had been bruised. 

“What?” Jason said, cocking his head. “Is there something on my face?”

“Nothing,” Dick said, then Jason suddenly found himself with an arm slung around his neck and a cheek rubbing against his hair. Jason blushed. Dick had scented him before, but it was usually brief and in greeting, the way brothers in a pack might. This was warmer, cozier. It reminded him of his mother. 

“You didn’t get hurt, tonight, did you?” Dick murmured into his hair. 

“No,” Jason said.

“But you’d tell me if you did, right?”

Jason’s grip tightened over his cookie, enough so that it crumbled into two. 

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Dick pulled away and arranged Jason’s hair back in place. Jason scowled and wriggled out of Dick’s grasp. Dick laughed. 

As it turned out, Dick’s fear was unnecessary. The Joker got to him before Bruce ever could. After that, Jason didn’t consider himself a pack member anymore. He told himself that was why it was okay as Bruce landed punches to his face and kicked him to the ground. The obligation to care no longer existed. He was an alpha anyway, and foreign alphas were expected to fight. They weren’t pack members anymore, not family anymore, so it was okay.

* * *

As soon as Bruce’s fist collided with his cheek, Tim’s mind reeled with questions: should he have saw that coming? Had this happened before? Was this why everyone always left?

Bruce froze a bit in the moments after, and Tim was flooded with relief. Perhaps it was a one time thing. It’d been a rough week afterall. Something nefarious was boiling over at Arkham, which did no wonders for Bruce’s paranoia. On top of that, Jason had all but disappeared in the past few months (not that he’d want to help if he was around anyway), and Nightwing was still indefinitely benched. 

“We’ll finish the report tomorrow,” Bruce said. Tim nodded, body feeling oddly numb and incompliant as he picked himself up. Bruce seated himself at the computer, back turned to him. Sterile, blue light fell from the screen. Tim felt like something more should be said. He itched to get answers. But Bruce was stalk still, eyes glued to the screen like a moth to window glass at night. Completely hypnotized. 

Tim tiptoed upstairs. It wasn’t until he’d reached his bedroom and closed the door behind him that he felt a sudden, cavernous loneliness. The others had taken off to their own places once patrol ended, except for Damian, who he suspected had gone off to bed. Alfred was having a night off. The silence in the manor was deafening.

Mechanically, Tim got undressed, showered, redressed, and brushed his teeth. His mind wandered to what the others could be doing. Stephanie had mentioned a post patrol meal. He imagined the omega in her kitchen, humming softly as she scanned the fridge for whatever might be lying around. Plastic wrapped slices of yellow cheese, probably, and milk close to expiring. She’d probably end up microwaving a Hot Pocket and eat it with her laptop propped on her knees. 

It wasn’t until the beta was in bed that he realized his scent blocker was still on. Picking loose a corner, he gave it a sharp yank. 

Though betas were known to have lighter scents, ones that weren’t as indicative of moods, Tim still picked up his own scent of fear, which had been bottled up from the blocker. It was only as he smelled his own scent that Tim realized he had, in fact, been afraid. 

No longer sleepy, Tim bolted up in bed and grabbed his phone. Midway through scrolling through his contacts, he realized that he couldn’t call Dick. Since taking a bullet to the head, the omega had lost much of his declarative memory, and opted to ‘move on’ with his life. Tim still remembered the last time he visited Dick at the hospital, and the way the omega had pulled away when Tim tried to curl up next to him. Embarrassed and saddened, Tim didn’t say anything to the man again, even as Barbara practically hounded him. 

Still mindlessly scrolling through his contacts, Tim faltered over Jason’s number. The alpha had given it to him over a nice weekend where Jason seemed less troubled and the case they happened to both be working on was rather simple. A moment of weakness, Jason would probably call it now. Tim wasn’t even sure if the number was real, or still worked. It was unlikely he’d need it anyway, but Tim still put it down from some starstruck awe that Jason thought he was worthy of his number. 

Before Tim could think too much of it, he pressed the number. Jason picked up on the third ring.

“What,” Jason said flatly. Tim was too surprised that Jason had answered that he nearly forgot to speak.

“Oh, you’re sleeping?” 

“It’s four am,” Jason said as an answer. “This better be important.”

“That’s okay,” Tim said. He studied his nails. “I don’t know why I called.”

“Hey, wait. I’m up already, so whatever.”

Now that Tim had Jason’s full attention, Tim wasn’t even sure what to say.

“I’d normally call Dick,” Tim said, meaning it to be an apology before realizing how it sounded. Jason didn’t seem fazed, however, and laughed. 

“Are you freaked out that he’s still loony? Cause don’t be. Shit like this figures itself out.”

Tim clutched the phone tightly against his ear.

“No, that’s not it,” he said. Tim hated how he phrased his own words that way - like he was keeping some prized secret. But that wasn’t true at all. It was more like the words he wanted to say couldn’t form in his mouth, held back by the sort of invisible, quivering force that repelled magnets. 

“Then what’s up?” Jason said, his words chosen casually but tone sharpened. Somehow telling himself that this was just Jason didn’t help. Telling a stranger would’ve been easier. More impersonal. Then again, a stranger wouldn’t understand.

“Has Bruce ever hit you?” Tim blurted. Silence followed on the other line. Then a dry chuckle.

“I’m the Red Hood. Of course he has.”

A pause.

“Did he hit you?” Jason asked. For once, the other man didn’t sound like he was judging. Instead, Jason sounded cautious and a little curious, like they were trading secrets. Tim didn’t respond. Forcing out his earlier words had been hard enough. 

“I saw him hit Dick once,” Jason admitted. “But I don’t think that was the first time. Or the last.”

“Oh,” Tim said. Hope that whatever had occurred downstairs was a fluke drained away. “But, I mean, I messed up tonight, and I shouldn’t have talked back.”

Jason didn’t say anything.

“Bruce loves us, you know,” Tim declared. “You might be pissed at him, but it’s true.”

Tim wasn’t sure why he was trying to pick a fight. He was kind of glad Jason wasn’t falling for it. 

“Are you okay with Bruce hitting Dick?” Jason asked. Tim couldn’t muster out a reply. Of course he wasn’t okay with it. He, however, didn’t feel entirely shocked by the fact. It fit, somehow, in the way that Tim hardly batted an eye when he learned that Jason liked ranch on his pizza. 

“I figured,” Jason said. “So do you think Dickie would be okay with Bruce hitting you?”

Tim flinched at those words.

“Dick’s not in his right head,” Tim said. “You know his fashion sense has somehow gotten worse?”

“My place is on Independence street, above the Greek grocery. I got an extra air mattress. You do what you want.”

With that, Jason hung up. Tim swung his legs off the bed and fished through his closet for the duffle bag he always kept just in case. He switched into street clothes and was ready to duck out the window when he remembered Damian. He hadn’t seen the boy all night. Gingerly, Tim krept down the hall to the eleven year old’s room and knocked on the door. No reply. Tim twisted the doorknob, hoping he wasn’t waking the brat, but found only an empty bed and a dark room.

* * *

Damian refused to admit it, but seeing his father hit Drake had unsettled him. While his mind ran wild, his feet carried him automatically to Grayson’s front door without even a bag of clothes slung over his shoulder. He rung the doorbell.

For five am, Grayson answered the door relatively quickly. It’d been a few weeks since Damian last attempted to snap Grayson out of his foolhardy crusade to ‘start anew’. Grayson answered the door still looking sleepy, but fell into a stern scowl as soon as his eyes landed on Damian. 

“You again, huh?” Grayson said. Damian attempted to push past, but Grayson blocked him easily. “Not so fast. What’s a pup like you doing out here at five in the morning?”

Damian crossed his arms.

“I am not just some _pup_ ,” Damian said defiantly. “And you shouldn’t be answering the door at this hour. Anyone could’ve been out here.”

“Yet here we are,” Grayson said, a slight playfulness curling at his lips. “So, what are we going to do?”

Contrary to popular belief, Grayson hadn’t completely shifted in attitude after the bullet wound. Damian saw it as more so a magnification of certain traits, particularly his ability to be annoying. 

“You’re going to let me in and house me for the night,” Damian demanded. Grayson raised an eyebrow.

“For free?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t know about that,” Grayson said, tapping his chin. “I got some dishes you can clean, though.”

Damian huffed. 

“Only if you provide breakfast.”

“Deal,” Grayson winked, and stepped aside. 

The apartment wasn’t dirty, but indeed messy. The coffee table was stacked with books and a tub of laundry. Wires ran wild near the outlet. The couch looked like it had been found at a dumpster, and was piled with mismatching cushions and had jackets flung over the back. Damian made his way to the couch and started organizing the cushions for the night. He couldn’t help softening at the scent of Grayson, unchanged, that clung to the fabric. 

“Woah, you’re not sleeping on the couch,” Grayson said, locking the front door and chain bolting it shut. “Pups like you need quality sleep to grow.”

Damian rolled his eyes. 

“Oh please, I could sleep every night on a couch and still end up taller than you.”

“Ouch,” Grayson feigned, but shooed Damian towards the bedroom. “At the very least, I need you to have enough energy to clean those dishes. I have quite a few.”

Grayson’s room was plain, absent of the sentimental knick knacks that decorated his old apartment. Strangely enough, Damian found the lack of his picture on the dresser to be insulting. 

“Don’t let the bed bugs bite,” Grayson said, a spare comforter in hand, then closed the door. Damian paused a moment, listening in the quiet as Grayson sighed outside and fell onto the couch. It was only then that Damian burrowed under the covers, enveloping himself in Grayson’s scent.

* * *

Dick woke to the sound of the sink running. For a second, he worried that someone had broken into the house and stuffed the drains, before remembering the kid - Damian - had come knocking on his door earlier that morning. Dick promised him breakfast. 

“Morning, kiddo,” Dick said, stepping into the kitchen. Damian grunted in greeting, standing on a stool and elbows deep in dishwater. Dick sighed. “You know you don’t have to do that. I was just joking.”

“I will not let you live in this condition,” Damian replied, rinsing another plate. “Pennyworth would find this abysmal.”

“Suit yourself,” Dick said, and started retrieving ingredients. He figured he could make pancakes, one of the few foods he didn’t overcook or undercook. If he recalled, the kid once mentioned not eating meat, which ruled out bacon, the only other breakfast item he could cook. 

Dick hummed to himself as he started mixing the batter. He eyed the kid, who washed the dishes with intense determination. Dick could make out the scent of frustration and confusion churning around the boy. 

“So,” Dick said, cracking an egg, “anything on your mind?”

No answer. 

“Any plans for today? It’s a Monday, isn’t it? Shouldn’t you be at school?”

Still no answer. Dick sighed. 

“Your dad’s not looking for you, is he? Cause I don’t want to get in trouble.”

At the mention of his father, Damian stiffened slightly. Dick cocked his head. 

“Kid, you’re not running away from home, are you?” Dick asked. When the pup tensed further, shoulders nearly up to his neck, Dick wiped his hands on a towel and leaned against the counter next to the sink. He reached around and turned off the tap. The pup refused to look at him. His lips were tight and flat. 

“Aw, kid,” Dick said. Though he usually found the pestering of his supposed friends and family annoying, he’d gotten quite fond of the pup that showed up once every few weeks as if he owned the place. It felt almost instinctual for Dick as he reached out and cupped the pup’s face, wiping away a speck of soap sud with his thumb. He read somewhere a few weeks ago, probably in a pamphlet, that there were declarative memories, some of which he had lost, and procedural memories, which he had not lost. They included muscle memory sorts of things, like riding a bike, or flipping pancakes. Dick supposed that though he’d forgotten who the boy was supposed to be, perhaps how they interacted had been coded into his very bones. 

“You wanna talk about it?” Dick asked. “From what I’ve heard, I’m very good at listening.”

Damian let out a scoff, but didn’t push away Dick’s hand. Instead, the pup hopped off the stool he’d been standing on and shoved his face into Dick’s chest. The kid mumbled something.

“You’re going to have to speak up,” Dick said, amused. The boy mumbled something again. Dick pulled away.

“Okay. One more time?”

Damian looked hesitant, staring off to the side at the sink.

“Father hit Drake,” Damian said. It took a moment for Dick to recollect Drake as ‘Tim’, the pale looking beta who occasionally stalked by Dick’s front sidewalk and called himself Dick’s brother at the hospital. That Drake, who was still in his teens.

“Oh,” Dick said. “By hit, you mean like -”

“They weren’t _fighting_ fighting,” Damian said. “Drake just stood there, like a dolt, and Father hit him.” Damian faltered. “Father only hits villans.”

Dick wasn’t sure what to say. He wasn’t cut out for this. He expected the kid to have some petty drama, like his father wouldn’t let him take in a street cat. Not this. 

“Well,” Dick said, scanning over the boy for any bruises or injuries. He found a scrape on the boy’s knee, though it looked like it was more from a fall. “I’m glad you came here. Is your brother still at home?”

“I don’t know,” Damian admitted. Dick found his eyes sliding back to the scrape on Damian’s knee.

“Has your father… hurt you before?” Dick asked. Damian’s eyes flashed. 

“No, of course not! That is preposterous. I am his blood son.”

Dick looked sadly at the pup.

“But you’d tell me if he did, right?”

Damian momentarily faltered, then gathered himself.

“Of course. But there is no need, because I am his son,” Damian stated. Dick opened his mouth, ready to say something else and perhaps offer the boy an extended stay in his apartment, when the doorbell rang.

* * *

“Yeah, I know I shouldn’t have dug through your trash. Oops. Now here’s the kid.”

Jason shoved Tim forward. Jason briefly scanned the omega, noting that he looked healthier than when Jason last saw (stalked) him a month ago. (To be fair, no one was updating Jason on the whole amnesia debacle, so he figured he’d look into it himself.)

“Jason!” Tim said flustered. For a moment, Dick looked bewildered at the two on his doorstep. Then Dick’s eyes zeroed in on the bruise on Tim’s cheekbone. 

“Your brother’s here,” Dick said. 

“Well duh,” Jason said. Dick rolled his eyes. “Wait. The demon spawn? That brat’s here?”

“Todd,” Damian greeted, appearing suddenly in the doorway. 

“Well, well, well, look who came crawling back,” Jason drawled. 

“This isn’t your house,” Dick said. 

“Yeah, but same idea,” Jason replied. For a while, the three non-amensic brothers glared at each other, unwilling to ask questions out loud and instead hoping to probe the answer through sheer willpower. 

“I made pancakes,” Dick said reluctantly, and stepped back into the apartment. The three boys eventually followed suit.

* * *

After the pancakes, and after Jason left, Dick offered them a place to stay. Tim could tell the omega was unsure about extending the offer. Dick still didn’t really know who they were. They were also two minors, and Dick so far only had the resources for himself. Tim declined, and hearing Tim’s decision, Damian did too. 

They returned to Dick’s just two weeks later. Nothing happened between then. Tim supposed some part of himself knew going back to Dick’s was inevitable, and had only returned home out of denial. He gathered his things and Damian, seeing Tim’s bag over his shoulder, packed as well. They left without a word.

Batman never came after them, nor did Bruce Wayne ever knock on their door. At night, on patrol, they stayed clear of where Batman would supposedly be, and Bruce returned the favor. Jason, who dropped by their door on odd intervals, insisted that the man was brooding. Tim liked to think otherwise. He still remembered how Bruce faltered, even momentarily, after he landed the punch. It was recognition of his faults, even if Bruce never apologized. Perhaps Bruce knew why they had left and let them go knowing it was for the better. 

Living with Dick had been awkward at first. The man didn’t seem to know what to do with two kids in his one bedroom apartment. He offered them the bedroom, but knowing they’d have to share, Tim and Damian opted to camp out in the living room on air mattresses instead. 

In the upcoming months, they ate a lot of pancakes. When Damian slept in, Dick made Tim bacon. At night, Dick looked doubtful as he let the two leap out his window and into the city but he helped stitch their cuts and ice their bruises after nonetheless. 

When a larger apartment opened up down the street, Dick took it. Jason chipped in. The alpha was over at their apartment enough as it was, frequently making a stir fry as a peace offering since they could only take so many freezer ready meals. Gradually, it seemed, or Tim hoped, Dick regained his memories.

Dick never seemed aware of it. The mind was strange like that, Tim supposed. Dick would sometimes mention in passing a long ago memory, and when Tim pointed it out, Dick would shrug it off, claiming he’d always remembered that. A year and a half later, Dick joined them on patrol. 

Frequently, Tim longed for the manor. He thought Damian did too. It wasn’t just the expansive equipment collection, or gourmet meals. He missed the mornings, when he’d be awaken by Alfred’s footsteps making rounds around the kitchen, or the afternoons, and the particular way sunlight fell into his room. 

But, Tim realized, watching Damian scowl at him from across the breakfast table as Dick microwaved last night’s leftovers, and Jason snored from the couch, having crashed their the night before, he couldn’t leave this either. In the air, above the smell of yesterday’s pasta, was the scent of their pack. It smelled lighter, more free, and though different from the scent of the manor, it was not unfamiliar.

* * *

It was by chance, again, that Jason stumbled across the two of them by Gotham’s harbor. It was a slow night. Summer had hit, and with it a long heat wave. Even criminals couldn’t be bothered to stir trouble. 

He’d wandered towards the bay craving the oceanside breeze. There was a pack of smokes tucked in his pocket. He had planned to lounge on top of a shipping crate, where he could savor the taste of bitter, comforting smoke, but caught sight of the Bat and Nightwing.

They weren’t talking, really, but faced each other instead of the ocean. A few months ago, Dick’s memories of Bruce slowly trickled back in, and with it, Dick’s demeanor shifted ever so slightly. He was darker at times, as if trying to make sense of the memories, but there were also moments when Jason thought Dick looked homesick. 

Jason tensed as Bruce raised his arm, Jason’s mind screeching in alarm, but the man only brought it gently to the omega’s face, cupping his cheek and stroking the side of his face. Dick leaned into the touch, breathing in the scentless, industrial smell of the gauntlet. 

Had Damian or Tim been present, Jason would have let his anger show. He might’ve even interrupted the two, telling Bruce to back off. But alone, Jason let himself sympathize with the deep longing for home and the comfort that had existed there, despite the pain.


End file.
